Stay Silent

According to the man selling ice cream, it takes 11 minutes to melt a popsicle. If my calculation is right, I have about 10 minutes left before my popsicle melts down.

Living in a tropical country with two seasons- the wet and the dry has its share of perks and downsides. When the rain whispers its first soft melodious music on the rooftop, the children rush to the streets and play, splashing their tiny feet through the puddles, their laughters harmonizing with the heaven’s steady outpour. Plains and valleys swell with life, the soil breathes, the trees bow with grace, and the cold wind conducts with perfect rhythmic precision making the ensemble whole. But when summer bellows its heat wave, most of the children wail and hide inside their homes, and the dry earth grumbles of its thirst.

I laughed at myself. I am not a child anymore and as a matter of fact, I will be turning 13 tomorrow. I should not be hiding at home. Today is a great day to start.

She’s going to be really happy to taste this popsicle, I thought and smiled. I put it inside the deep pocket of my shorts and continued walking briskly to the direction of her house. When it is May, you can’t help but to feel the heat of the dirt road roasting the worn out soles of your slippers. I cringed at the idea of my feet burning in every step but moved on anyway to tread the long bumpy road ahead of me.

“Hey!”

Someone yelled. I scanned the long stretch of yellow green rice fields, the almost bare, brown mud creek running on my right and there he is, on top of a fully-grown mango tree by the curved road is a boy sitting on its large branch. His left foot rests on the branch while the right foot dangles into the air. He has the skin and hair the color of the branch – a dark brown hue with natural highlights from the extreme heat, and is wearing tattered shorts and shirt revealing his skinny arms and legs.

“Hey kid, get down! That’s pretty high for you to climb!” I yelled and nudged him to go down.

“It’s cool up here. You can come and join me,” he said, grinning.

“No, thank you,” I replied shortly.

What am I, a kid? And besides, I have a more important responsibility to do than to climb a tree. Today is a great day, I repeated to myself.

He swings his left leg and clamps the branch in between that flesh and swings his right leg after. He grabs the nearest branch, hoists himself up, and throws up his arm to reach another branch on top of his head.  

Oh my God, this kid is going to fall!  

“Hey kid, that’s…..!’

My breath slows down, knowing exactly what will happen next.  My mouth is wide open screaming with fear as I hurry towards the poor kid. He fell on the cracked earth, his right foot twisted at an unnatural angle.  He is red in the face. He is breathing hard, shaking and holding his foot.

 “It hurts,” he said.

“Where does it hurt?” I asked worriedly, sitting in front of him.

“Here,” he said, pointing at his right foot.

I sighed. “Do not touch it. You have to rest your ankle,” I sat beside him. “When I was a kid, I also used to climb trees and my mother would always whine about all the bruises I got and the clothes that got ripped. One time, I got this nasty sprain from falling off a mango tree. My friends sprang to call my mother and while waiting, I was so scared of what she might do to me. Our mothers love sticks, don’t they? But on that day, she carried me on her back and recounted funny stories of my childhood until we got back home. I did not even feel the pain after that.”

“So, are you also going to tell me funny stories?” the boy asked.

“She told me that I am her only treasure and that if I care for her, I should also care for myself.”

 “What?”

I forgot, he is only a young boy.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. “Anyways, where is your mom? Why are you climbing trees alone?”

“She is at home, taking care of the baby.”

“Why don’t you stay home and help her?”

“Today is her birthday and she likes sweet mangoes.”

“So, you are going to give her mangoes as a birthday gift?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how I’m ever going to get home,” he whispered, caressing his leg.

We sit for a while, listening to the birds chirp and the faint gurgle of the creek, feeling the sun on our bottoms.

 “Do you want me to carry you to your house?” I offered. He is toying the leaves with a small branch.

“Are you strong?” he asked, tilting his head, sizing my body.

I nodded. “I’m a big man.” I stood up straight and dabbed my chest. “You cannot walk in that condition,” I continued.

“Okay,” he said and smiled wide. I picked up all the ripe mangoes on the ground and put them inside the plastic bag lying beside him.

“Let’s go.” I grab the bag and motioned for him to climb on my back.

The path is clear and sizzling. We are already past the four carabaos wallowing contentedly in thick mud, their owner fast asleep in the makeshift bed of bamboo and grass under another mango tree. After a few minutes, my limbs are throbbing and my shirt is plastered to my body with sweat. My head is also drenched in sweat and my back is starting to feel numb.  The soles of my hand-me-down red slippers are squealing against the friction of the dirt and stones dredged on the road.

Finally, farther along the path is a canopy of sour apple trees and in their middle emerged a small hut. A young mother dressed in floral light dress  is stepping out from hut, and on her waist, is a baby with black hair.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Is that your mom?” I asked.

“Mama!!!” he shouted and wriggled on my back.

I saw the woman look up at us, raising her empty hand, beckoning us to come over. So I did. I walk to the house and set the kid carefully on the wooden table perched outside.

“He fell from the tree,” I explained wiping the sweat from my forehead with my right arm. She looked at me and the kid.

“I told you over and over again Boyet not to climb trees!” bellowed his mom, shaking her head, the little baby starts crying. “You never listen to what I say, do you? You should thank your friend for carrying you all the way here!”

“No, it is fine,” I interrupted.  “He is a brave child. He did not even cry when he fell,” I reassured her. "He just needs to rest his ankle."

I roast to my feet and declared, “I better get going.”

“Thank you for taking care of my son,” his mother said in a soft tone.

“Thank you,” the boy said and smiled at me sheepishly. I ruffled his hair and start walking away.

I looked back at them and saw the boy giving the plastic bag of sweet ripe mangoes to his mother. She locks her son in a sweet embrace and I looked away, a tear sneaking out my eye.  

I ran as fast as I can into my destination, trying to dissolve the memories, trying not to recreate moments that I can never feel again.  I opened the door and there she is, wearing a dirty white dress, barefoot, rocking on her knees, staring at the bamboo floor. The place has the smell of rotting food and unwashed body. I pick up the scattered pieces of food and threw them outside.

After I cleaned, I sat beside her. Her long black hair has turned into strands of grayish disheveled hair. Her once sharp black eyes and strong shoulders have become lifeless, devoid of any vigor to get up and see the world again. Her nails long and dirty, grabbing her hair once in a while, pulling them out and bringing it inside her mouth.

“I brought you something.” I called softly. “This is your favorite.”

I took out the almost melted popsicle from my pocket. I moved it just a few inches from her face and she instantly recognized it. She stopped pulling her hair, a bright smile is spread across her thin lips.

“Popsicle,” she purred.

“Yes mama, popsicle.”

She reaches for it, her unsteady hands slowly working their way towards me. Her hands came to rest on my hands, a gush of warmth and joy has spread over my body.

“Shall I open it for you?” I asked.

She nodded her head in reply. I tear the wrapper in careful motions, my hands trembling, remembering the times she gave me a popsicle --- when I broke my tooth, when I didn’t want to go to school, when I helped her plant in the rice fields, when I carried our dirty clothes to the river, when I fed the chickens in our backyard, when my father beat me, when she beat me, when he beat her, when he beat both of us…Tears silently slide down my cheeks…

“Your mother is sick! She is going far away and you are not allowed to go near her!” my father barked at me after my mother went running around the neighborhood holding a knife, accusing everyone of stealing my father. I wanted to ask my father that time what it meant by stealing my father but I knew better than to talk so I stayed silent.

I stayed silent even when he made my mother stay far from us. I stayed silent even when he married a young woman from the neighborhood. I stayed silent when they had a baby. I stayed silent when they could not buy me new slippers. I figured out that staying silent is the best way to be with my new family.

 “Why… are… you….crying?”  her raspy voice brought me back.

I looked at her and she laid her hand on my head, rubbing it like I am a child all over again.

“You.. will…be… okay…”

I held out my arms to her. I rested my head against her shoulder and feel her humming a lullaby through her tiny frail body. As I look at the rope nestled around her legs, and the bamboo cage trapping and keeping her safe at the same time, I did not say a word and everything is forgotten.  I stay silent.